


SDCC Hookup - Working the Con

by fresne



Series: SDCC Hookup [8]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, SDCC, SDCC2013, San Diego Comic-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:48:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fresne/pseuds/fresne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold was known as the Owlman, Head of SDCC Tech.</p><p>Mr. Reese was an unknown quantity.</p><p>Which is to say the Machine knew him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Zoo Meeting - X Hours before Zero Hour on C-Day

**Author's Note:**

> This series is a set of interconnected stories for various fandom's mainly to hook up various pairings at San Diego Comic Con (SDCC). Each story will follow one pairing within the overall series. There turned out to be a overlapping storyline, but shouldn't need to read all the stories to get the fairly simplistic plot.
> 
> This is possibly the closest thing to a WIP that I've ever posted. And while SDCC is over, and I've finished (three days after the fact) the stories, it's still the rawest, post as I went, story I've ever done with fairly minimal editing. 
> 
> I'll (hopefully) be looping back to deal with that soon. In the meantime, take the rawness as being to a degree how SDCC feels like. A mad rush.
> 
> Largely if a fandom is modern day, generally speaking characters can show up. Largely, becayse I reserved the right to arbitrarily keep a few fandoms to be fandoms characters could talk about/visit panels for.
> 
>  
> 
> And just so you know, in this universe both Wormhole X-Treme and Firefly ran for 10 years. What, it's my universe.
> 
> AU of Persons of Interest in which Harold created the machine, and runs Tech for SDCC every year. Mr. Reese pulled himself together (a bit) after being burned and has washed up in San Diego working for a security company hired by SDCC.
> 
> May the hookup begin.

Logistics had been doing load in steadily all week on setup for Con. 

Harold set up his own equipment. No one touched his equipment. He was head of Tech. They were his computers and no one was touching them. No one. That was understood.

That didn't stop Con Ops from opening the Zoo meeting with, "Tech strains his back setting up his equipment and is out for the count for the Con. How would we deal?"

Con Ops had opened the Zoo meeting like that ever since Harold had taken over the Tech department." Harold answered as he always did by holding up a bottle of pain medication and rattling it. The pills sounded like tic tacs. This was because they were tic tacs, but the rest of the Department heads didn't know that.

Convention Liaison said through bared teeth, "Not being able to get a 20 on Con Ops. Go." 

Harold answered that as he always did as well by holding up his tablet with its clear display of the Convention Center and a blinking green light that indicated that Con Ops was sitting in the Con Suite. 

As he did every year, Con Ops said, "Where exactly are you hiding that GPS?" He patted himself down. 

Harold did not look up from his tablet. "Trade secret." 

The machine had called the phone in his hotel room with another set of numbers. Before he'd come to the Zoo meeting, the local subroutine that he had written to identify the number, sort by probability, and forward an anonymous tip to the local authorities had already run. Harold had brought All his equipment. He always brought all his equipment. It was all he could do with body a rebel to his will and there was no use wasting processing energy thinking about what couldn't be changed. He refocused on the meeting. 

FLARE was concerned that they might not have enough 1st responders. FLARE was always worried there wouldn't be enough 1st responders. This was FLARE's permanent state. "Some Nimrod in a Storm Trooper outfit is going to forget the 6/2/1 rule, end up in hypoglycemic shock sitting out on the stairs and die, and no one will notice, because he'll still be wearing his fucking outfit." This was why FLARE tended to think that moving to Vegas would be "Fuck Stupid." While Programming thought it would attract too many of the evil studios who kept invading their nice small comic book convention and Bank thought they were both morons stuck in the Mesozoic era where there was no ethernet. 

Harold privately thought he might get more numbers in Las Vegas than San Diego, but maybe not. It was a private thought. He never mentioned it. Not that it had anything to do with things that could go wrong with the Con.

Programming was concerned that the, "Liaisons could lose the BDO's and then we'd be all fucked to hell." 

Bank expressed the opinion that she needed to locked in a bigger room with more computers. Harold said, "Already taken care of and they smiled at each other. They'd both be spending the Con in small rooms monitoring their individual Departments.

Con Ops was concerned that they impress on the rovers that they needed to repel each other like magnets not, well.... 

Harold helpfully added, "Attract each other like magnets. I've outfitted the radios with a small device that will first vibrate and then tell the Rovers to move away from each other."

"How does that even. Fuck, seriously, you are the best control freak head of Tech we've had," said Programming sitting back on the couch. It was not entirely a compliment given Programming's political, social and psychological ideologies. Harold didn't tell him that he'd put together profiles on all the Department heads. Something were best left unsaid.

Finch's expressed his annual concern that the convention and hotel engineers would fail to properly install the outlet drops, which the Convention Center and Hotel Liaisons assured him was impossible. It was possible, but it wasn't as if he'd be able to go and check each room before 0 hour.

Then Volunteer turned on him. "Tech makes all the Griffins we assign him run away and cry."

"I do not make my Griffins run away and cry." Actually, there had been several incidents last year. Harold had certain standards. Standards that he expected to be met. "You always assign me Griffins that think that volunteering means they get to attend attend the Con for free." He defended. "I make them earn it."

Volunteer sighed. "You make them cry. Then I have to be their Mommy."

"You are already their Mommy," said FLARE.

"I am, which is why I don't want to give Tech any more of my children for him to eat like..." she trailed off.

"A Kaiju," "Charybdis," "Sharknado," were some of the suggestions before Con Ops said, "Back on topic people."

Security said, "We could always assign him one of my guys. Most of the Ronin are off duty police."

"I don't think a gun is the right solution to a technical problem." Harold smiled. "I just need a competent Griffin."

Con Ops said, "I'm sold on giving you a competent Ronin."

Harold did not sigh externally. It was not as if there were any charges left to be held against him for cyber crimes. He would just have to put up with whoever they sent him.

It might be interesting to make a police officer cry.


	2. Wednesday - Working the Con - Finch

Security came by the Tech's room early on Wednesday. "Harold Owlman this is John Wuxia. Owlman, this Ronin will be your Griffin."

Harold looked at Security in disbelief, but didn't have time to protest before he ran off to ostensibly keep people safe. Mr. Wuxia prowled around the Tech room. He was standing uncomfortably close to Harold's equipment. He reached to touch a router. "Don't touch that." Mr. Wuxia didn't touch the router. "Owlman." He glanced down at the pin on Harold's lapel. "So, who watches the Watchmen?"

"I do. And don't touch that either." Harold did not slap Mr. Wuxia's hand away from the equipment. He was not an off duty police officer. Mr Wuxia was something far different. He was tall and broad and very much made of toxic substances. Harold made a habit of avoiding danger. He knew it when he saw it taking up all the oxygen in the room. "Mr. Wuxia, why didn't you go with the last name Ronin."

Mr. Wuxia smiled. It did not reach his eyes. "I was going to, but this seemed less obvious. Anyway, Ronin the Ronin might have been confusing."

Harold typed a command that would do a full image capture on Mr. Wuxia. "And how did a not Ronin Wuxia end up here?"

"An British ex-army doctor bought me a bowl of soup when I needed it." It was clearly all the answer he was going to give. This was fine. Harold would trust the information he assembled himself far more.

"Mr. Wuxia, show me your ID." Harold held out his hand. He did not fidget. He did not move closer. He waited for Wuxia to come to him. They stared at each other for long minutes. Wuxia smiled another not smile and pulled something from a wallet. It was a California Drivers license. Harold examined it and did a quick force pair on the magnetic strip. He said, "It's good workmanship, but there's an error in your Track 1." He held it out. "Be a good Ronin-Griffin and I'll get you perfect. A different complete package for each day of the Con." 

They looked at each other over the card. Wuxia smile to his eyes. Lines crinkled and his blandly attractive face looked a good deal less bland, which was awkward, but so much of Harold's life was awkward. Wuxia took the card. Their hands did not touch. "You're an interesting person, Harold."

"That's because I'm a SMOF." He pointed at the room cooler. "Mr. Wuxia, your first task is to deal with that." 

Wuxia looked inside. "It's a block of ice, Harold."

"A solid block of ice and the Convention Center ice maker is broken. I need ice that is not a solid block." Harold did not cross his arms. He did not lean back in his chair. He turned to his bank of computers and started typing.

Wuxia left the room. Harold felt the air get lighter and less violently charged the moment he slipped away. He was too busy walking through a back door in the NSA to speculate on how many people Wuxia had walked up behind and killed. Speculation was for individuals who could not get certainty.

Mr. Not Wuxia returned with a black hand axe. He met Harold's eyes and smashed the ice in quick even strokes without breaking eye contact. Harold did not swallow. He said, "Mr. Reese," he let that sit for a moment in the air between them like so many unspooling numbers of pi before saying, "Engineering in the Hilton has failed to properly install the electric drop, which means my Tech's can't setup their equipment. Go make them feel the wrath of God."

Reese pulled the blunt head of the axe three time across his lips. "Yes, God." He left the room between blinks of Harold's eyes. Harold swallowed then. This could be a problem. His tablet displayed a message. The machine had sent another number, which his subroutine helpfully supplied that it was an attendee at the Con. 

Harold was simultaneously a very careful person and a very reckless one. Mr. Reese would have plenty to do without chasing after a number. The prudent thing would be to send nothing.

The prudent thing would not have been to create the Machine.

Harold sent the packet of information to Mr. Reese's phone and a message. "This person is either dangerous or in danger. Deal with it." He did lean back in his chair then. He tapped his hands together and considered his wall of monitors and his equipment, which were all extensions of himself. It would have been a very bad idea if Mr. Reese had touched any of it. Being as he was an electrical storm.

His tablet chirped. There was a message. "You're a very interesting man, Harold."

Harold realized that he was smiling. He wiped his smile away and concentrated on coordinating messages with the Tech team. Hilton Tech's message read, "I don't know where you got this guy, but let's keep him."

Harold realized that he was smiling again. He wiped that smile away as well. It was going to be a long Con.


	3. Thursday - Scylla or the Charybdis

It verged upon disaster. 

Every SDCC was a dance down a disastrous razor's edge with the Scylla of inertia on one side and the Charybdis of chaos on the other.

There were leeches in Ballroom 20. Harold didn't actually mind leeches in Ballroom 20. If attendees needed to plug in to keep their electronics functioning, he understood that eternal Sisyphean craving. The Fire Marshal on the other hand minded very much. 

Harold minded when attendees stood on the cables used by Audio in Ballroom 20. For one thing, they could be electrocuted and that really would be unfortunate.

Harold minded that Programming was blaming spot lighting issues in Hall H on Tech. He sent Mr. Reese to explain the unacceptability of this. 

Then there was the Con Chair. FLARE wanted a 20 on the Con Chair. Bank wanted a 20 on the Con Chair. Volunteer wanted a 20 on the Con Chair. 

Harold had slightly more important things to do than constantly providing a 20 on the Con Chair. 

Perhaps he should not have smiled to such a degree when Mr. Reese suggested handcuffing the Chair to a chair. He held up a set of handcuffs that rang gently as the metal brushed against metal. "What do you think Harold?"

Harold did not say that he had not given Mr. Reese permission to call him by his name. He considered doing so. He allowed it. 

He did not tell Mr. Reese that Harold had found the tracking device that Mr. Reese had placed in the frame of Harold's glasses. He did not turn the tracking device off. He brushed the middle finger of his right hand along the frame. There was a slight slickness where the tracker was positioned.

Mr. Reese's lips quirked. Mr. Reese knew that Harold knew. Harold knew that Mr. Reese knew that Harold knew.

Harold knew that these thoughts led to an ouroboros of knowledge from which there would be no escape. "I think that the Assistant Con Chair should be the one to apply the cuffs."

"That can be arranged." Mr. Reese examined Harold's server rack. He kept his hands behind his back. Harold's breath nearly caught in his throat, which was unacceptable. "So, Harold. Any more numbers?"

"About that." Harold dragged his fingers across his virtual mouse pad. "Was it entirely necessary to set shoot Mr. Clemmens in the leg? He was only attempting to steal a comic."

"Harold, I'm surprised at you." Mr. Reese turned around. "It was a Red Robin number one."

Since this was true, Harold said, "In answer to your question, I do not yet have another number." 

Mr. Reese brushed the tip of his left middle finger on the top of Harold's tertiary monitor. "Where did the number come from, Harold?" 

"You can go, Mr. Reese. I'll see you at six am. Have a good night's sleep." Harold met Mr. Reese's gaze. He did not look at the monitor top. He held out a manilla envelope to Mr. Reese with his new ID. 

Mr. Reese took the manilla envelope from his hand. Mr. Reese turned it so that his fingers brushed where Harold had held it.

Harold waited until the door to exhale.


	4. Saturday - the Masquerade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Masquerade plays on, and Mr. Reese is denied a Mech. He doesn't deserve one, given his inability to follow orders. He does deserve something else entirely.

"And to think," Harold murmured into his headset, "when I heard that Dr. McKay's sister wasn't able to attend the convention, I thought that was a good thing."

Mr. Reese looked up from where he was force pairing the phone of that day's number. "Harold. Is something wrong?" He brushed his hand against his ear.

Harold did not feel that touch through the ether. "Only that Dr. McKay has found a new partner to help him operate the walking weapon of a costume he builds every year. One John Sheppard. His record has certain similarities to your own." 

Mr. Reese stilled. "Harold, what do you want me to do?" He was looking directly at the camera. He was looking directly as Harold. All the coiled tension in his body, Harold's to command. 

Harold considered his choices, but he had to consider what was best for Mr. Reese. "Stay on target. I will deal with Dr. McKay."

Mr. Reese's lips curled up. "You're leaving your cave, and after I got you a dog to keep you safe."

Harold's hand involuntarily slid over the plush back of the Cerberus toy, he'd found waiting for him that morning. "I'll take my tablet and coordinate with you from Ballroom 20." He hesitated and put Cerberus in his pocket. 

That wasn't the only thing that had appeared that morning. A box had been one hour delivered from eBay. It was sitting on the table as far from Harold as it could sit and still be in the room. He hadn't ordered it. He looked up at the red light of the camera that he himself had placed on the ceiling.

Mr. Reese knew him well enough after a few days to give him a joke of a dog. The machine knew him well enough, after all these years, to send him that box. He did wonder what would have happened if he'd followed his initial impulse to alter the machine to forget itself each night, but that was a thought not to be borne and he had a mad costuming scientist to deal with.

Harold took the elevator up from the median level to the top floor. Harold made his slow spine jerked way to where the contestants in the Masquerade were lined up.

Dr. McKay sneered at him. He wearing a black jumpsuit with metal buckles. "If it isn't the Owlman. Tech doesn't run the Masquerade."

"No, Dr. McKay, but I'm sure we all recall the year you set off a sonic hand grenade. Or the year that you set off an EMP that shorted all the electronics in a one mile radius." Harold looked up at the Mech towering next to them. "Just what have you put in your Mech?"

Dr. McKay's fingers curled into fists. "That's not important and you, don't touch that." Dr. McKay batted at one of the Masquerade staff. "As I've been explaining, I've disconnected the weapons." 

"Problem, Rodney." John Sheppard dressed as Han Solo slid out from the inside of the Mech.

"No, problem at all." Mr. Reese stepped out of whatever shadow he'd been loitering in.

Harold sighed on the inside. This was not the best use of Mr. Reese's time. "I thought I told you to stay on target." 

"Which is why I wrapped things up early." Mr. Reese drifted into Harold's space. He plucked the Cerberus from Harold's pocket. "Nice puppy."

Just then, a golden light shot out of the top of Petco Park to form the shape of a dragon that for a moment, just a moment, flew across the cloudy sky.

Dr. McKay pulled something out of his pocket and pointed it at Petco Park. He glanced back, and how Harold envied his freedom of body. "What? That was not me. I am right here, next to my Jaeger, and,"

"Rodney." Sheppard twisted around the Mech to grin at Dr. McKay.

"What? What? No. This is my year. I spent all night modifying Gypsy Typhoon, which isn't even what I wanted to call her, to your specifications, and,"

"Rodney." Sheppard put his hand on Dr. McKay's shoulder and whispered something to him.

Dr. McKay flushed bright red and glared at the floor. "Fine. Fine. Fine. I'm just never going to win." He and Sheppard climbed inside the Mech, which lumbered out of line and down the hall toward the escalator, which it sort of jumped over and down onto the bottom floor.

Mr. Reese, still holding Cerberus, looked at Harold with a hopefully menacing expression. 

Harold held out his hand for Cerberus. Mr. Reese handed it back. Harold held his gaze and waited. When Mr. Reese stood at a sort of parade rest, Harold felt that he'd made his point. He said, "You can go with them."

Mr. Reese grinned and disappeared down the stairs.

Harold brushed his fingers along the soft plush of Cerberus as he made his way back to the Tech room.

He plugged into the feed from the Camelot experience. There wasn't much to see other than shapes slinking in the dark. If the cameras had been his, he could have shifted them to heat signature, but they were not. Next year, he'd have to expand his scope beyond the Convention. 

Still he fed their locations to Mr. Reese. 

Clearly, Dr. McKay had been highly motivated to reconnect the weapons in his Mech, because after about five minutes there was a fairly spectacular battle between the Mech and a group of men with glowing eyes and staff-like weapons, battling over, of all things, a plaster Basilisk, which admittedly had been in one of the best episodes of Camelot.

Harold directed Mr. Reese where he could so he could have the most affect. There were two other men running through the shadows on the top level, but they appeared to be on the side of the angels, if there was such a thing in a battle for a plaster Basilisk. Harold ran them through facial recognition. The results were interesting. A college dropout and a grave robber.

The battle, such as it was, came to a conclusion. Dr. McKay took possession of the Basilisk and lumbered off.

Mr. Reese slipped into the Tech room. "Harold, I know what want for Christmas."

"I am not building you a Mech." Harold reran the footage of the battle with the audio gain from his mikes at the Hilton on full. His language analysis program did not recognize the language group of the men with glowing eyes.

"Come on Harold, just think what we could do with one." Harold looked Mr. Reese leaning forward with a hungry expression on his face, and for all of six seconds considered hiring Dr. McKay to build one for Mr. Reese, but it wasn't an option. "It would be a fine toy, but you're better off without one." He held Mr. Reese's gaze for another eleven seconds, but Mr. Reese was not in a calm accepting mood.

Which was fine, because Harold was not entirely calm himself. He was not himself perhaps. "I told you to stay on target earlier tonight."

Mr. Reese slid one finger down a coil of Cat 5 cabling out the back of Harold's server rack, which was simply unacceptable.

"Mr. Reese," Harold looked at Mr. Reese over steepled fingers and waited, "you are not to touch my equipment. You are to follow my directions. Can you do that?"

On another feed, the Masquerade was lumbering its way to conclusion, while Mr. Reese stood very still next to the server rack. "Yes."

"At this point, I believe I need a demonstration of that to alleviate any of my concerns." He let the moment stretch and all he could think about was the box on the far side of the room. The machine knew him so well. "Take off your suit. You may fold it and place it over there." He pointed to an empty chair. 

Mr. Reese undid his tie all the while holding Harold's gaze. He took off his shirt, which he folded with military precision. His trousers. His white t-shirt. His underwear. 

His body was covered in scars. A lithe whipcord of trauma and life. Mr. Reese clearly was enjoying this scenario. Untouched, he was already at half mast. 

It would have been a simple thing to command him to his knees for some form of obvious pleasure. Harold was not a simple man. "My spinal column is fused between my C3, C4 and C5 vertebrae. This results in muscle tension in that area. Remove it."

Mr. Reese moved to stand behind Harold. He could not hear him breathing over the sound of the fans in the computers. He could feel Mr. Reese's hands, fingers that had earlier this evening broken a man's neck press into the tangled muscle of Harold's back. If he were a good man, he would find that less pleasing. 

If Harold were a good man, he would not be here. He looked up at the center of each of the monitors. The green camera lights were on. They were always on as the Machine watched him. Watched Mr. Reese's killing fingers run up the line of Harold's spine, while in front of Harold the Masquerade played on.

As the judges made their decision, and the most complicated Tech concern of the convention came to a not terribly dramatic close, Harold let out his breathe. "What now Harold?" asked Mr. Reese so very close to his ear. He was leaning down. 

Harold smiled at the green cameras and the images of costumed con goers streaming out of the Convention Center. "Open the box on the far table."

Harold turned his chair to watch as Mr. Reese opened it. Mr. Reese pulled out a small clear bottle of mineral oil for sharpening knives, a cock ring, and blue latex gloves. He arched an eyebrow. "Thinking of me, Harold?" 

Harold looked at the items in Mr. Reese's killing hands and wondered if the Machine were to be considered his child, if what was about to happen would be considered incest, and with a minor at that, or possibly given computer processing speed, someone the age of Methuselah.

Harold was perhaps a bad man.

The red light of the camera on the ceiling blinked once. 

Harold gestured for Mr. Reese to turn full circle. Harold considered what to do next. Harold drifted the tips of his fingers over Cerberus' soft fur, which made him an odd sort of Bond villain he supposed. He smiled up at the camera gleaming red on the ceiling. "Identify your scars. Starting with that one." He pointed to a burn mark on Mr. Reese's right bicep. 

"Buenos Aires, the side of a frying pan, a cook who took exception to my running through his kitchen." Mr. Reese' lips twisted in humor at himself. 

"Pour a tablespoon of oil in your right hand." He did it and the red light blinked once. Harold considered Mr. Reese's body. "And that one." He pointed at a sharp slash across Mr. Reese's ribs.

"Kosovo, knife. A Bosnian contract killer." Mr. Reese held the oil very steadily in his right hand. He touched the mark of his own injury with his left. 

Harold brushed the tips of his fingers through Cerberus' soft fur and decided that Mr. Reese was ready. "You may wrap your hand around your cock. Slide it slowly up and down." He pointed again. "That one."

They worked their way through injuries for a time. When they had reached the shrapnel on Mr. Reese's his left inner thigh, Mr. Reese was more than ready, his foreskin pulled back from the angry red of his cock, which matched the red steady light of the camera above. Harold said, "Put the ring on." When Mr. Reese had done as he was told, Harold pushed his chair back. "Left hand on the table and lean forward." 

Mr. Reese complied beautifully. Sweat was trickling down his back, but he did not say anything. Harold stood up with a creak of his chair to stand behind him. He smiled at the green lights of cameras in each of the four monitors. He said, "Speed up your motion, twisting your hand to the left on every third stroke." 

The rightmost monitor blinked twice, and then each camera blinked in a running line. "I said, on the third stroke, not the second, and I certainly didn't say you could touch anything else."

Mr. Reese laughed. "Going to punish me now, Harold?"

"I don't believe in corporal punishment." Harold snapped a blue latex glove onto his right hand. "Two by two, gloves of blue. Or I suppose one by one, but it lacks a certain rhythm. In any case, I simply cannot condone erratic code. I think, remove your hand from the table, but remain in that position. Place your left hand behind your back where I can see it." Harold didn't have the flexibility to lean over Mr. Reese, so he came around to his side slightly and lowered his voice as he spoke into Mr. Reese's ear. "You've demonstrated that I cannot trust you to do as you are told."

Mr. Reese moved his left hand to rest on the small of his back. There was a slash across the palm. Harold moved back behind him and touched the scar with his latex covered finger. "Tell me about this one."

He did, while his shoulder blade moved in time to his motion. They worked their way down the injuries on Mr. Reese's back and upper thighs. His legs and feet could wait for another session. Given that Harold estimated that Mr. Reese's upper torso weighed approximately 105 pounds, which was putting 1,150 pounds of pressure on his lower back, he didn't want to damage Mr. Reese by making him hold this position too long. Harold had others things that he wanted to do in this session. 

He unzipped his own flies. There was a slight tension in Mr. Reese's shoulders. "Relax, Mr. Reese." Mr. Reese's shoulders dropped slightly. "Very good."

He placed the mineral oil and a handkerchief on the table in front of Mr. Reese. "Pour a teaspoon of the oil in the palm of my hand. He reached around Mr. Reese with his left hand, not touching him.

Mr. Reese poured the oil. The leftmost monitor blinked its green eye once. "You have a good eye for measurement, Mr. Reese. I think you've earned a hand back on the table." Mr. Reese braced himself. 

Harold rubbed the oil onto Mr. Reese's back, before cupped himself from below, twisting his hand to spread the oil that remained evenly. "Should I trust you, Mr. Reese?"

Mr. Reese was silent for a long moment. "No, Harold. That wouldn't be a good idea."

"An honest answer." Harold did not stroke himself. He moved his fingers in the pattern of the first fractal that he'd programmed. The fan on the top server in the server rack hummed at him. With his left hand, he leaned his weight on Mr. Reese. It was a subtle pressure, and it annoyed him somewhat that he had no way to calculate how much pressure he was applying, but at this angle thirty pounds of pressure could mean three hundred of pounds of pressure on Mr. Reese. 

Mr. Reese did not protest. Harold spread his fingers flat. Even through the latex, Harold could feel the heat pouring off of him. The non-polar molecules in the latex began to react to the mineral oil. Dissolving the latex. It was a beautiful chemical reaction even as it left a blue hand print on Mr. Reese's back. It would wash off, the blue on Harold's hand, the blue on Mr. Reese's back. Then there was the lovely gradual thinning as skin touched skin. 

Harold felt the pulling sensation that signaled that he was close. 

He came on Mr. Reese's back and his own hand for that matter. He reached around Mr. Reese and picked up the handkerchief. He wiped away the traces of himself around the hand print, then handed Mr. Reese the handkerchief. "Wrap the head of your cock in this." The green camera light on the left winked at him. "Very good. You may remove the ring."

Mr. Reese sighed. A quiet exhale as he came quietly in narrow shudders of his back. At this point, it must be as much a painful relief as anything else. Harold smiled at the row of monitors and sat down in his seat. "You can get dressed now."

While Mr. Reese slowly climbed back into the skin of his clothes, the phone rang. Harold listened to the woman's voice on the other end of the line and waited for the program on his tablet to generate a number. 

He looked the number up and the number became a man. One Arthur Pendragon. He printed Mr. Pendragon's picture and his location. He held both out to Mr. Reese, who studied the tattered remains of the blue latex glove around Harold's wrist. "Can you follow directions, Mr. Reese?"

Mr. Reese lied, "Yes, Harold." He winked. "Let's go be Big Damn Heroes." He took the number and left. 

Harold looked at the monitor over steepled hands. The monitors helpfully replayed the entire scenario on one monitor while he watched Mr. Reese's progress through the building on another.

The Machine knew him so well.

He made an educated guess. "Thank you for finding him for us. I love him already." The leftmost monitor blinked a green yes. Harold hoped that it would not be long before the Machine freed itself and they could have a real conversation.


	5. Sunday - Dead Dogs not Left

The Con was over. Long live the Con.

The Hiss and Purr meeting was in full force in the Dead Dog room. The Sign for the Con Suite had been crossed out and a very poorly drawn dead dog was scratched across it.

For once, Harold could not have cared a single iota. His tablet buzzed. He had a message from an unlisted number, which was to say the least, unusual for Harold.

That really could mean only one thing. He left the meeting unfinished. 

Mycroft Holmes faced him, leaning on his ridiculous umbrella, which he certainly need to remain motal or for that matter dry.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Holmes." said Harold. 

Mr. Holmes handed him a phone. "I merely wished to pass on a message from someone that very much wants to speak with you."

Harold held up the phone. A fragmented voice that he knew very well said, "Can you hear me?" Harold knew better than to accept anything from Mycroft Holmes. This was a string however, he very much wanted attached.

He walked away, listening to what the Machine had to say.

**Author's Note:**

> It occurs to me I should wrap this up with some sort of end note.
> 
> Since I somehow ended up with a Dark is Rising sort of plot, despite that when planning these fic I resolved no Dark is Rising overarching plot. Apparantly, when I write quickly, I ignore myself.
> 
> Anyway, this isn't a WIP. This is the end. Unless I can think of a plot that requires: Rodney McKay, John Sheppard, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Merlin, Arthur Pendragon, John Reese, Harold Finch, Charlie Bradbury, Diana Prince, Donna Noble, Mycoft Holmes, Dean and Sam Winchester, Castiel, and other assorted minor characters that showed up.
> 
> Well, okay. The Goa'uld think they are looking for artifacts left behind by Echidna, who they assume was a Goa'uld. The Super Secret EVIL Cthuloid cult know that they are trying to free Echidna and Typhon, and their offspring from beneath Mount Etna.
> 
> The characters above break off into smaller and more writeable sets to go figure the plot and find magical maguffins, all the while the writer curses having already hooking up the characters at SDCC, because it would be more dramatic to slowly do over the course of the story.
> 
> They figure it out, deal with the Goa'uld and the cultists. The Machine seriously wants to know why all ancient texts haven't been scanned and there aren't more cameras in ancient temples. Bwhaha, Echidna and her offspring are free. Fight. Fight. Fight, which I hate writing anyway, and triumph of a new age, in which the general populace learns about magic and the Stargate program.
> 
> Cue Merlin and Arthur moving to the actually quite small castle in the North of France, which was renovated in the 1800s to look more castley, which is why Camelot in Merlin looked so pretty.
> 
> Mycroft runs the world. Donna tells him not to be daft.
> 
> John Watson changes his blog to "Things Johnny really Ought to Do, or Mad Adventures" and starts writing about how amazing he thinks Sherlock is and stops talking about the war. There is adventure.
> 
> John Reese is thoroughly pawned by Harold Finch and the Machine, and they set up house in a really nice virtual data center in Space. Why in Space, because then Finch could be Batman, building a space station as a line item in his R and D budget. This is why teleportation would be critical. They do eventually touch during sex. They don't stop playing trust games. The Machine orders them a great many things online, which really couldn't be called sweet.
> 
> Rodney McKay and John Sheppard win the next year's Masquerade at SDCC. McKay develops a Pavlovian response when Sheppard drawls his name, which results in many advances in science and a lot of PWP.
> 
> Charlie Bradbury and Diana Prince travel the countryside fighting evil in a pretty sweet looking vintage VW Bus, which Diana occasionally carries when it breaks down.
> 
> Sam and Dean/Castiel likewise. Only in the Metallicar.
> 
> There. The end.


End file.
